Medicated.
Grieving.
Alone.
And I trusted her.
She said she had handled everything.
The clinic paperwork.
The arrangements.
The cremation.
There was no funeral.
No grave.
No photograph.
No footprint card.
Nothing.
Just a blue cap I had knitted before giving birth.
For twelve years, I believed my son had entered the world and left it before I ever heard him cry.
Then, sitting on my bedroom floor after discovering my sister had carried on an affair with my husband, one thought suddenly became impossible to ignore.
If Brooke could lie to me like this…
What else could she lie about?
And then another memory surfaced.
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